Of Monsters and Men
by twilightjunkie1313
Summary: A conversation with Stark. An effort to repay a debt. The world through the eyes of a spider. An analysis.


Of Monsters and Men.

(Avengers fiction.)

Author Note: I do not own.

Summary: A conversation with Stark. An effort to repay a debt. Dancing and redesign. Humanity as seen by a spider.

…

…

She doesn't have time to acknowledge.

Thor has gone, taken the hulk with him, through and through the concrete room like it was little more than nothing. Her center of balance is sliding leftwards, the edges of her vision cloud black before sharpening into focus.

She hauls herself off of the floor. It is easy to navigate the catwalks, easier still to vault over the railing and settle in between some piping and a water tank. She waits, listening to muted communications through her headset.

…

It is a sunny day in Manhattan when Stark turns his focus from the data pad under his palm to her. She notices, but doesn't look up from her book.

"So-"

Stark begins but stops short.

She is still paying attention as she turns the pages.

…

The middle of the street is a horrible place. She has commandeered an energy weapon, it's a staff. While she isn't as graceful and precise with it as she wants to be, she is still lethal. These things (organic life forms with weak points similar to a human, she reminds herself) still fall to the pavement.

It isn't a defensible position. It isn't the sort of place she would hold, even if she could hold it indefinitely. Every logical analysis of this section of asphalt and upturned cars results in the same conclusion. This is a kill box.

She doesn't make to move toward one car or even the bus a few dozen yards away. There is still a perimeter around her that the enemy hasn't crossed. She still has ammunition. There is still time.

Steve appears in her line of sight. It is unexpectedly sudden as she pivots around, the decidedly more lethal end of the staff level with the man's chest. She pauses. She almost shoots, running on nothing more than adrenalin. Every minute of close combat training giving her a muscle memory that sends her spinning around again.

Blue and red vanish from sight as she spins, twirling the staff into the temple of some thing. She registers that Steve moves behind her, his motions are different in flavor than her own. He is brutal where she is exact.

…

Stark doesn't turn back to the tablet. He twirls the stylus absently between his fingers and shifts his weight to his left hip.

She stops reading, gently closes the book. Places it beside herself on the couch. While she has the option of giving him the benefit of the doubt, of making this easier for him… she chooses not to. Her expression eases into neutrality and she places both feet flat on the floor.

He inhales. The look on Stark's face is particular one. He centers his weight between both hips and straightens, standing behind the counter instead of leaning on it. He puts the stylus down and taps a few fingertips on the edge of the counter.

"So."

He begins.

His mouth moves, lips open but close without uttering a sound. She can see his unease play across his face. She controls her breathing, counting twenty seconds between each exhale and inhale.

…

When Bruce walks into the thin house out on the outskirts of the village, she becomes aware of how many feet away her gun is.

When she sits down at the table, sliding the phone across the plain wooden surface, he stands. She listens to a voice in her head recount everything she has learned about body language. She is offering herself up on a plate when she slides the chair a little closer to the table, eases her feet a little father underneath her chair.

The window isn't directly behind her. It is to the left, eight and a half feet. Bruce is caught up in the image on the screen for a moment. He backs away from the table, she stays put.

When he raises his voice, slams a hand down onto the wood and leans forward her hand curls around her gun and she pulls it out. The weight is familiar. She still hasn't turned her back to him.

He apologizes. It is inelegant and simply stated. Her heartbeat hasn't slowed, her eyes still look down the barrel of her gun. Part of her runs scenarios and repeats distances and the locations of the shooters outside. The location of the fighter jet Coulson has flying nearby in case she fails.

…

"Who owes the most?"

Stark's question far outweighs the words he uses.

She waits. He will have to be more specific. The conversation that could take place is complicated. He will need to ask in order to receive, even then she isn't obligated to give.

She knows that he is versed in body language. When she accessed JARVIS to alter her security codes she decided to dig deeper. Study the program to learn about it's creator. There were hundreds of lines of code dedicated to analysis of posture, spine angle, eye contact, body heat, weight distribution and movement.

He notices when she tucks her legs underneath herself.

…

It isn't complicated. She understands.

Thor has appeared at her doorway, which she has left open as an invitation.

He asks if she would like to go to the library or perhaps, a bookstore. He explains that he has run out of new reading material. He does not wish to re-read one of the books in his collection when there is still so much literature he has not discovered yet.

She is already reaching for her bag, dropping a small wad of bills inside it. She asks if he knows how to get to where he wants to go.

He says he does. She believes him but doesn't recall showing him around the city.

A driver deposits them on a corner downtown. She sends the car back and assures the driver that they will be capable of finding a way back. They wander, taking in the sight of a New York rebuilding itself. They find a few bookstores, each becoming wrapped up in quiet as they scan the shelves.

He pauses in front of a jewelry display in a shop window. Thor is considerate, asking her if she would like to come in with him or if she would prefer to meet him back here later. She follows him in and watches as he picks out something fragile looking but deceptively sturdy for Jane.

At the last bookstore she goes a bit overboard, purchasing eleven books. They are not all about weaponry, a few are poetry books she has read once or twice before but never owned. Thor's stack consists of mythology books from various regions. The casher gives her a paper sack with thin rope handles for her books.

The bags are not heavy, but they are bulky. Thor takes a few from her grasp and slides them into a rucksack she didn't remember him carrying before. They stand out a little on the street, even in civilian clothing.

They keep catching people's attention, stares that linger or people who give them too much space on the sidewalk, on the escalator, at the subway platform. She doesn't like it, but it isn't dangerous.

When they return to the tower Bruce is poking around the common kitchen. Stark is taking up half the couch, remote in hand, watching the television screen on the far wall. Steve walks into the room with an empty bowl and a spoon in one hand.

They have brought back take out, some Shwarma, Thai food and a little bit of Chinese. She pushes two cheeseburgers toward Steve without preamble. The counter becomes a mess of wrappers and plastic forks.

…

"Between you and Barton, who owes the most?"

Stark is the only other person in the room. She watches him try not to stare at her as she sifts through every possible meaning of his question.

Finally, when she understands that he isn't asking about body counts but the words Loki had tried to bind her down with (dominate her with) she answers.

"How long did you study the security footage?"

Stark doesn't expect her to go this route, not entirely. He steps away from the countertop and comes to grip the back of an oversized chair.

"Two hours, after you and Barton moved in."

"Clint."

She corrects him with an immediacy that causes Stark to blink and still. The rest of her sentence goes unspoken but clearly understood. In the context of this conversation he is Clint, not Barton, not Hawkeye.

Stark doesn't sit down. He takes a few steps back and leans against the countertop.

…

They are assembled in the kitchen.

Not all of them are eating. Steve is, because he goes through enough food to feed three. Bruce is looking over the crossword of a newspaper and scrolling through a New York Times article on a data pad. Stark is eating a bowl of cereal, leaning obnoxiously into Bruce and tapping the crossword occasionally.

Thor is watching a special on the National Geographic channel but still looks up when she walks in. He smiles and nods to a place on the couch between himself and Clint.

She has just woken up, hair still wet from a shower. She is wearing the most casual civilian clothing she owns. There is a book in her left hand and she taps the cover lightly before sliding it onto the counter.

Bruce says hello and turns his attention to the cover of her book. When he is finished reading it he flashes a small smile.

"Sleep well?"

She had returned from a mission early that very morning.

"Yes."

The mission had gone decently enough. It had been a success, a boring (but textbook) success.

"I was wondering something about the tower."

She already has Stark's attention, but the volume of the television drops and she can sense Clint listening.

"And that was?"

Stark is curious, a bit bored but entirely non-judgmental.

"I have a stack of books, Thor is collecting every written work he can get his hands on and I know Steve reads."

Steve nods and places the uneaten half of his sandwich on it's plate.

"I read too, so does Bruce."

She can feel Clint's indignation from across the room. He vaults over the back of the couch as Stark tells him not to abuse the furniture.

"I have books. I read."

Clint sounds more like a disgruntled seven year old than the top ranking sniper he is.

She asks if Stark would allow her to build a library. Immediately Steve offers to help. Bruce is subtle, clearing the screen on the data pad and sliding it into the center of the counter. Thor has slid in behind Stark, watching as Tony pulls up the blueprints of the common spaces in the tower.

They stand around the counter, Thor telling them about the libraries of other worlds. They banter over proper bookshelf design before they banter over how big they need the shelves to be.

Stark picks out the wood and buys the hardware and has it all delivered to the tower the next morning. They decide to line one wall of the living room with shelves, floor to ceiling. It is a week before they are finished, because Steve and Clint insist on building the shelving themselves.

Bruce helps at odd hours, building an entire section alone one night because he couldn't sleep.

…

"Everything Loki said was true."

She watches Stark grimace before he clears the emotion off his face.

"You beat him."

She lets it hang in between them for a moment. Stark is half right.

"I did and I didn't."

He has enough sense to not question that.

…

Stark didn't sleep the night before. He has a hand wrapped protectively around his coffee cup as Bruce hovers around the toaster.

Clint is off on assignment, a glorified security detail that he had soundly complained about over lunch three days ago. He isn't a morning person, so she doesn't miss him as they gather for breakfast.

It is an informal affair. Sometimes it isn't, like when Steve decides to cook for everyone. The rare days that she and Bruce are the only ones awake lead to a few plates of waffles and some thick cut bacon.

Today she eats yogurt out of a carton with a spoon.

When Steve appears, showered and damningly proper compared to Stark's wrinkled t-shirt and dilated pupils, he grabs a cold slice of pizza from the fridge.

Stark either doesn't notice, or is too tired to chide the super soldier for his un-American breakfast. Bruce spreads some cream cheese on a sliced bagel and stacks the halves onto a plate. He places his knife in the sink and wanders off, exiting the kitchen silently.

She waits for Steve to get through some of his food before she leans back in her chair. He is sitting across from her, one hand clasped lightly around a glass of juice. She asks him if he has any plans for the day.

He pauses, chewing thoughtfully before answering. He doesn't have any plans, but now she has him curious. She apologizes, telling him that she's already cleaned her guns and double checked the working order of her gear. A look of recognition crosses his face, he knows what it means for people like them to have nothing to do.

She asks him to go dancing.

At first he stays quiet, not sure how to answer. Stark is scanning the news on his data pad and scrolling through a screen integrated into the countertop. She waits.

He agrees, nodding a little. She should feel pleased that he is still so cautious around her, only she doesn't. Instead she asks him if he knows how to dance to jazz. He grimaces a little before Stark grabs his data pad and cup, walking by the table on his way out of the room.

Stark teaches him the basics.

Hours later she appears at his doorway, knocking before walking into the middle of his quarter's. He is working on his tie. Stark offered them a driver. She had gently refused, needing only the car.

Steve looks wonderful in a suit but he doesn't move well in it. She climbs into the driver's seat of the car and he walks around to the passenger's side. She had talked him out of driving, but he had insisted on opening her door.

Once she clears the tower's grounds she tells him to calm down, twice. He shifts uneasily in the seat. She explains that she doesn't get out very much. Admitting it makes her feel a little too exposed, a bit too honest.

He says he understands and she quietly laughs. She has seen every alley in New York from down the barrel of her gun, he has slept through the formation of pop culture, the birth of the city as it is now. Yet neither of them have ever enjoyed this place. They have never been given the chance.

They are seated at a table in the back. She slides into the chair with the best vantage point. Even though the light isn't very good he notices that she wears flat soled shoes.

She doesn't tell him that she has heard him playing jazz records in the middle of the night while she wanders the hallways. Instead she asks him if he has found a shop that sells good vinyl. He tells her he hasn't.

She orders a burger and asks for iced tea instead of the wine list. He nods as the waiter takes down her order. The place is classy, tidy… somewhere he would never have gone by himself. When the waiter turns his focus to him, Steve offers a genuine smile and orders a burger as well.

He isn't a horrible dancer, Stark had done an admirable job teaching him a few basic steps. She is gentle with him, easing him out onto the floor after they finish their food. She explains that dancing to jazz is a lot less precise than dancing a waltz.

Steve laughs, because he knows a pep talk when he hears one.

When she really begins to move he understands.

Natasha is good at this. They get some stares and he understands that too. She dances with the same inherent grace and unerring precision that she fights with. It leads him to wonder if those qualities were always hers, or if they had been taught to her. Drilled in alongside weapons training and interrogation techniques.

She presses a palm into his shoulder with a light forcefulness. He follows her lead, easing back into the sound of the band and pushing her past from his mind.

He learns to move in the suit, relaxing halfway through the night. She is surprised when he asks if she is thirsty. They weave through the crowd, making their way to the polished oak bar. She notices him grin, because the bartender wears a bowtie and has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the entire thing feels like it's from a different era.

When the bartender asks what they want Steve orders her an iced tea. She thanks him as he sips a ginger ale. She gets him talking about music. He is surprised when he realizes that it doesn't feel like an interrogation, even more so when she keeps pace with him. The music of her childhood was old fashioned. Though he isn't surprised when her preferences lean toward classical.

They do not stay out very late, the dance floor is just beginning to overcrowd when he follows her out the front door. The valet stares at her a little too long and it almost causes him to laugh. He has seen surveillance footage of her on missions. Right now she looks polished, at ease with her beauty.

She had laughed, a smirk crossing her features when he pointed out her flat soled shoes. In truth he was glad she had decided to be casual. She wasn't underdressed. He has seen her dolled up in a ball gown, strapping a gun holster to each thigh and tucking a knife into the back of her dress.

They arrive back at the tower to find Clint rummaging around the fridge. Bruce is not far away, watching the news on low volume, sprawled out on the couch. She pulls the bobby pins out of her hair as she grabs a glass from the cupboard. He thanks her and vanishes to his quarters, eager to get out of the suit.

She leaves the keys to Stark's car on the counter before she heads to bed.

…

Stark is cautious, looking into his coffee cup.

He had seen the footage. It had been later, after Manhattan was saved and Pepper was in their jet flying to Colorado to check on some detail of production for a new alloy. He had pulled up the footage and watched it straight through, then again. It had taken him more than two hours to painstakingly pick apart just what happened.

"Spit it out Stark."

She rarely minces words.

"You never answered my question."

She shifts, moving to sit on the edge of the couch cushion. Her knees are far apart and her elbows come to rest on them. She shifts again, crossing her legs and tucking her feet underneath herself. Her hands are in her lap.

"We owe in different ways."

Stark nods.

It is as much of an answer as he was hoping for.

…

He is indignant when she steps into his workspace, like she fucking owned the place even though it is his building. It has his name on it, or at least it did.

She has come to collect him for a briefing. Only he doesn't want to go. So he tries to distract her by burying his half relevant excuse under a mountain of science related techno babble. She doesn't fall for it, grabbing his arm in a painful hold and pulling him from his stool.

He swears at her, it's uncreative and he knows she could come up with better. He scrambles for a few sheets of paper and holds them up by his ear. He hopes this is where her line of sight happens to be.

She releases the hold, snatching the papers from him as he shakes out his arm.

She lays out the schematics for Hawkeye's bow and quiver on the tabletop in front of them. Eyes scanning over the blueprints with intensity. She mouths something and points to the base of the quiver.

Stark's design had extended the quiver's length by about four and a half inches.

Natasha tells him it won't work.

He leans forward, arms crossed as she explains that Hawkeye has practiced with standard sized arrows. This means a standard sized quiver. Changing the dimensions would mean that the quiver would sit differently across his back, leading to potential difficulty removing an arrow.

He uncrosses his arms and grabs a ballpoint pen, making quick notations in careful handwriting as she speaks. She tells him about the weight balance of the arrows. A dozen other things that she should not have known about engineering archery equipment.

When he mentions it to Barton a few days later… the archer smirks. He explains that Natasha had designed and built most of his current equipment.

…

She picks at the keys hanging up in the kitchen.

Bruce thinks she looks almost normal. Passably civilian even, clad in a lightweight t-shirt and jeans. She has a backpack strapped across her back and he wonders where she plans to go.

"No combat stilettos?"

Stark's teasing is gentle, he is too engrossed in the tablet in his hands to put in much effort.

Bruce glances at Stark, the man is occupying a leather chair in the tower's common living room. Natasha is smirking at the back of Stark's head in a playful way.

He nods as she passes, turning his attention back to the notebook in his lap. It's filled with the research notes on the back plating design for the fourth rendition of Tony's suit. The two had tossed around the idea of redesigning a few of the older suits. Turning them into something Stark would deem combat-ready.

She is suddenly right beside him.

Bruce wonders if he will ever become fully used to the particularities of his newfound roommates. Probably not. He will never become accustomed to Natasha's ability to walk silently, or her habit of carrying a switchblade on her person in casual settings.

"Come with me?"

Bruce blinks.

She waits patiently for an answer. Bruce fidgets, thumbing the notebook absently.

"The both of you have been inside all week. There's no hope for Stark-"

"Hey!"

"- but you should consider getting some air."

He doesn't cast a pointed glance at Manhattan's skyline. She already knows where they are. She stays still, attention turned uncomfortably to him. (He gets the same unease when Clint talks to him, the focal point of an unerring attention.)

Ten minutes later she tries to press borrowed car keys into Bruce's hands. He shakes his head as the elevator door closes, she shrugs. Something occurs to him.

"Where are we going?"

"I wanted to go for a drive."

He nods.

Her answer startles him a little bit. He has not often seen this side of her, the remains of a whimsical free spirit. She isn't normally indecisive and rarely does she invite others to witness it.

The keys to Stark's Audi chime in her hand as they exit the elevator.

…

The arc reactor glows. He would sooner damn himself than admit that it's calming. He supposes that he would fear the dark without it.

He is still awake, making a bowl of cereal in the dark. Or what passes for darkness, the coffee pot and refrigerator each blink a chaotic sequence back and forth. He has a glass of low-grade-alcoholic-something in one hand. His night vision is alright, but the floor isn't staying level underneath him.

He slams a hand down on the counter to steady himself and manages to push himself away from the counter instead. Stark falls to the floor with a crash and a quiet shout.

She is there. Appearing out of thin air. Silent as a ghost.

He stares somewhat blearily up at her from the floor. She is alert, barefoot. He isn't sure if the shirt she wears is Barton's or standard issue shield nonsense. It's big on her. She is wearing spandex shorts, a gun holster is buckled unerringly over the fabric.

He wonders when her nightmares began. Just when had she stopped sleeping?

Because he can pinpoint when his started, they synchronized with the sudden and violent shift in his morality. The night he spent awake in his own bed aware that he had a terrible privilege and the burden of bearing it responsibly.

This is a shadow of the Natasha he knows. Her face is calculating and empty.

He doesn't move. She keeps the barrel pointed at him for thirty seconds longer than he thinks she should.

She scans the rest of the room before lowering the weapon and pivoting soundlessly on the ball of one foot. She vanishes as quietly as she came.

…

At first he doesn't see her.

She enters her quarters with a large duffel bag late one afternoon. She leaves a few days later, carrying nothing down the hall but a gun strapped to her outer thigh and a colder look than normal.

When she comes back she wears the same clothing. Stark doesn't see her footsteps falter when she rounds the corner and he wonders if she has ever been startled by anything.

The common living room is full of life. Bruce is focused on the stove, cooking. She sweeps her eyes over each of them. She looks at the places where the security cameras are buried into the light fixtures.

She doesn't join them for dinner. Stark doesn't see her for two more days.

He doesn't check the security feed.

It's morning somewhere in Europe when Stark decides that he isn't getting anywhere on the alloy for super light Kevlar-carbon paneling. It's a side project that he's been interested in for a while now. Only there are bigger things eating at the mechanics of his brain.

He knows she will be awake.

It's idiocy that has him typing in the override code on keypad beside her door.

When he opens it the hinges move silently. She is unapologetic, pressing the barrel of a gun against his right shoulder. He wonders if he should have given this more thought.

Stark presses the tip of his index finger to the barrel and pushes it leftward. He moves the barrel until it rests in alignment with his heart. It isn't a power play and he knows it. Stark understands her lethality like he understands the probability behind blackjack games in Vegas or the fact that the color of his hot rod and the color of the Iron Man suit are two and a half shades different. It is simple fact.

If she decides to pull the trigger _he wants it to count._

She doesn't move. He isn't arrogant enough to place his hands in his pockets. She bares her teeth a little, the silent version of a growl. The faint blue light of his reactor makes it visible.

"What are you hiding from?"

She doesn't flinch when she tells him to get out.

…

They stand around, body language carefully composed to resemble civilians.

Clint kicks the toe of his sneaker at the floor, minding the security camera in the ceiling just to his left. She leans against a pillar, aviator sunglasses covering most of her face. It's a small airport just west of Atlanta.

When the jet arrives a stewardess takes them out onto the tarmac.

She doesn't expect to see Pepper. A quick glance to the side confirms that Clint hadn't expected the woman either. The stewardess gestures to the jet and says something official and curt. Natasha nods, faking a grateful smile and dismisses the stewardess.

Pepper waits at the bottom of a set of stairs leading to the door. She is wearing flats and holding a cell phone in one hand, but she rises onto her toes and waves enthusiastically at the pair before they are within earshot.

…

There is suitcase full of recently purchased bedding sitting outside of Natasha's door. It's early, too early for anyone to be awake except Stark. The billionaire-playboy-mechanical-savant hadn't been sleeping recently.

She closes the door behind herself and sits down on the floor. She spends a while cross-legged on the hallway carpet. She feels the seams of the comforter, unfolds the sheets and holds them to the light to make sure they aren't discolored, even slightly by some lethal liquid that had been allowed to dry.

She turns the suitcase inside out and runs her fingertips along every inside pocket she can find.

She appears at the door to Stark's lab, silently punching in an access code she shouldn't have. The doors open and she trails half of the oversized comforter on the floor as she walks. Not that she cares, Stark has always been meticulous about the state of his floors. They are clean to the point of being medically sanitary.

Stark is pointing at her, muttering something about security breaches and overridden protocols. She dumps everything onto the ground in a heap. The suitcase clatters to the floor as she looks toward the ceiling before looking directly at Stark.

"JARVIS, analyze that for trace elements of known biohazards, chemical toxins, radiation , heavy metals, and other potentially lethal compounds."

"Yes agent Romanoff."

She stares at Stark while the AI silently works. He has dark smears of shadow under each eye and his hair is untidy. He eyes the bedding with distrust for a moment before turning his attention to a screen.

"The analysis is complete agent Romanoff. The suitcase contains an aluminum frame and stainless steel zippers. The fabrics contain traces of bleach and various commercial fabric dyes. I was unable to locate any traces of radiation, heavy metals, precious metals known biohazards or unacceptable levels of toxic chemicals. It also contains no trace amounts of-"

"Thank you JARVIS. That is all."

Stark's voice is sudden and coherent. He's got a coffee cup in one hand and a stylus in the other. He cocks a brow before focusing bleary-sleep deprived eyes on her face.

She stands, waiting.

"You tested your bedding for heavy metals and radiation."

She doesn't blink.

"You disembowel a perfectly functional suitcase and storm my lab."

Her head tilts slightly to the left.

"I found it outside my door this morning."

Stark doesn't laugh. He isn't cruel enough to laugh. He remembers building the filtration devices that would detect traces of combustible materials and biological weapons. He designed heat sensitive filters for each of the cameras in the top fifteen floors of the tower. He remembers writing the code that allowed JARVIS access to the chemical databases from six countries. Stark knows paranoia when he sees it.

Three days later Natasha wakes up to a knock on her door. It's unseemly early in the morning.

She answers the door with a knife in one hand.

Pepper grins, holding up a bag before gesturing to a few more by her feet.

…

End.

….

….

Author note: This took more time than I am used to dedicating to a oneshot. It also birthed a few questions that I couldn't answer and some sequences that simply didn't belong in this collection. I hope you enjoyed it. I also hope you enjoyed reading my freshmen effort at writing Tony Stark's point of view. Not as easy as one might think, but it allows for _the liberal application of sarcasm and cursing._


End file.
